Hunger for the sun.

It seems it has just got colder here, Winter has indeed arrived.
Although I do not recall the warm embrace of a summer sun. There was however the illusion of warmth. An anticipation of the feeling for which I almost hungered.
It was a warmth that came in the company of damp spirits, and now in the growing dark of ever shortening days the hopes of respite from my own wet bones has gone. Like a loved one leaving to find work abroad I can only hope that soon there will be a joyous return.
Until then an old familiar acquaintance will be my companion. An associate I will study.
Every day, I will watch with intrigue the furrows and ridges and dips and brows that make up his pale and stormy demeanour. I will Gaze up in constant squint and relish in pleasurable optimism at any sign of the cracking of that ever presence that exists within a totalitarian cover which is his face and tormenting winter sky.

Draughts and whistles are the order of business today. I have a multitude of gaps in windows and doors that need plugging up before the real onslaught of hail and wind begins. I must patch the cracks of my temple and then in quiet meditation, I should contemplate the cracks in my life.
If only they were so easy to remedy with sticky tape and old newspaper.
Strange how that works! Patching up the exterior world with old news and Addressing the old news of the interior World That causes the cracks in a life when it is done. Stranger even that when you finally get rid of winters whistle from the last opening to the outside world that the whistle of the other begins. Every wrong that We have imposed on others and every unjust trespass made against us. All begin to sing their winter song. It is good to hear the song of the soul It reminds me that in some way I have worn both masks on my journey toward light I have been Sinner and Saint.
It is good to know this for with this knowledge No person can label me with untruth.
“Know thyself” What a simple shield to wear in this virtual plane were words are the weapons of choice.

Thankfully I can muse with the song of the haunters that sing in my head. I have no tell-tale heart burred under my foundations nor any skeletons in my closet. I am in modern terms relatively free.
The shadow puppet theatre of Plato's cave Perhaps nothing but a genetic memory.
The bloodline journey that brought me here is relatively unknown to me. But its Joys struggles and teachings all make me who I am today. I would be foolish not to listen every now and then and take what note I can of my songs eternal wisdom. Peace and Truth to you. May all your ghosts sing softly on this season of souls.